To be fair, most of the clothing that currently litters my bedroom is actually clean. It's simply waiting to be pushed into it's drawers, or hung on hangers, or given to someone else who it really belongs to, even though it's ended up in my laundry basket.
Also in the interest of fairness, it's only been there for two days. Some, if not all of it, will likely get put away before I pull some semblance of covers over my chin tonight, close my eyes, and dream.
But it is currently taking up a lot of space in my very small bedroom. And while it doesn't look great, and it's not an appealing place to invite people over to right now, I'm happy that it's there- it represents a lot more than clean clothes.
Once upon a time (and not too long ago, at that) I would have never had clothes on my floor. For a very long time, I could have nothing on my floor without freaking out. If that meant that I was sitting up late one night, (or early one morning) until the room was clutter-less, then that's what it meant. I took pride in the fact that my room was ridiculously clean- and worse, I took comfort. If my space was dirty, my world was out of sorts. Things on my floor left me feeling existentially questionable- was I a careless person for leaving my things left about? Did responsible and respectable people ever let their space be inhabited by possessions? Who was I if I wasn't even capable of putting away my life before bed?
Now it almost sounds laughable, but back then, it was a ridiculous obsession. You only have to pull a few four am nights before you realize that other things have to give. And I gave. I gave up plans with people. I gave up hobbies and opportunities that intrigued me. I may have even skipped a few homework assignments (although for that one, I'm not really that sorry). I gave and gave to make sure that my room, and the appearance that it gave of itself, and of me, were beyond tidy.
So tonight, looking at the pile of stuff on my floor (which may be more than clothes at this point- there might be a few bags and boxes, some stockings and hair pieces, and some things I have yet to put away), I am not just looking at the junk of the last 48 hours. I am looking at an improvement in my own life. I am looking at the product of a girl whose been negligent in her cleaning, because she has had other things to do- other social events to attend, other hobbies to follow through on, and the twinges of real life, seeping in where it belongs. I even chose, dear reader, to write this before I cleaned it up.
And I am proud of how far God has brought me, how He has taught me the true meaning of life. He has taught me that people and passion take precedents over a few piles of stuff (within reason, of course). He has taught me that a clean appearance is nothing more than a show, and in the end, I have no one to be showing off for, except for the one who sees through my antics. He has taught me that His love heals addiction and obsession, and that I am his perfect child. and that the clothes on my floor do not represent who I am.
He has taught me that I am His, His very creation, and that even with a messy floor, I am made to serve and praise Him, and the clothes on my floor have no power over that.
Take that, existence.